RYAN MITCHELL'S POV
The small, dimly lit pub was tucked three blocks away from the CSI offices, secure, anonymous, and far enough from the precinct to ensure privacy. I hated clandestine meetings, but I needed one with Nate, now more than ever. The minute I listened to the unencrypted section of that meeting recording, my blood ran cold.
I nursed a lukewarm beer, watching the door. The moment Nate Cole walked in, I saw the change. He was usually composed, tightly wound, but controlled. Tonight, he looked like a soldier returning from a brutal, losing battle. His tie was loose, his eyes were too bright, and a manic, wired intensity had replaced the deep fatigue around them. He was a mess. A magnificent, dangerous mess, and he did not offer a greeting, just slid into the booth across from me, his movements jerky and impatient.
"Did you get the manifest?" I asked, skipping the pleasantries, lowering my voice, cutting through the low murmur of the bar.
